


The Curse of Merlin

by mybutterflyguy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Mental Health Issues, Other, POV Merlin, Post-Camlann, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 16:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybutterflyguy/pseuds/mybutterflyguy
Summary: Riddled with grief and loneliness, Merlin struggles to cope as time continues to pass even after Camelot and his friends are long gone. Though Merlin may be stuck in the past, the world keeps spinning, and as time goes on it produces some incredible figures, and Merlin finds himself meeting people who will become legends in their own right, while discovering secrets about himself and Camelot along the way. As Merlin meets future legends, receives strange visions from Nenive, the Lady of the Lake, and encounters a secret group called the Order of the Bear, he begins to wonder if there's a purpose to his immortality or if it's just a curse he's been forced to bear.





	The Curse of Merlin

**Author's Note:**

> T/W: Suicide attempts are mentioned, but not described in detail.

Part One  
Lyon, France  
May, 1428  
The world has changed, that much I know for certain. Though whether or not is has changed for the better… I cannot say.  
How long has it been? A century? Several centuries? I’ve lost count. All I know is that Death has not come to claim me like he has the others. A terrible mistake, truly.  
I had to suffer the deaths from the Battle of Camlaan: Morgana, Gwaine, Arthur… so many lost… gone. Forever. It’s all too much to bear, and I can hardly stand it.  
And then the others. As the years went on they all began to fade. First Gaius, the oldest, then my mother, and Leon, and Percival… so many countless others. So many I had passed everyday in the castle, laughed with, talked with, lived with. All gone.  
Gwen was last. She had lived the longest out of them all. My first friend had become my last. But she too slipped away past the Veil. To the Land of No Return. A land I cannot go and, perhaps, never will.  
These were my thoughts as I stepped out of my bed, trying desperately to clear my head of the thoughts that haunt me, but nothing could make me forget that Death has stolen each of my friends and left me behind, completely and utterly alone. And nothing, nothing will ever be able to change the overbearing weight of loneliness.  
Why? Why has Death left me behind? Why am I still here, when so many have come and gone? Is there a reason? Is this some sort of punishment for my sins? For failing Albion and Arthur? Or is it just a fluke, a mistake by fate that needs to be corrected?  
I stared down at my breakfast of gruel, having no memory of making it, my mind too preoccupied with “what ifs” and “whys” to have paid attention. I flipped my beard over my shoulder to move it out of the way, feeling the strangest urge to laugh at the absurdity of it. I didn’t, however, as I brought my spoon to my mouth with a shaky, wrinkled hand. I sighed. It was time to become young once again, though it meant having to move once more.  
Perhaps I could stay awhile longer, just stay old for a few more weeks so I wouldn’t have to leave just yet, but as my hand shook so badly that the gruel slipped off the spoon and into my lap, I pushed that idea away, the memory of my first aging replacing it.  
It had been long after Gwen had passed when I started to wonder if it was my time too. However, though my body got weaker, Death did not come. I waited and waited, but all that happened was my body gave out without giving me a release. When I could take it no longer, I opened my spell book and enchanted my body to return to youthfulness, instantly relieving my aches and pains.  
It was then that I discovered I could not die.  
Although, this had not stopped me from trying to give Death a little help, through poisons, and drownings, and other such means that I could think of. But still, Death would not come.  
Do not be mistaken, I do not crave death to end my misery, but as a reprieve from the unnatural that has born such a misery. It is a tragedy when a normal man ends his own life because he could not see a way out, but my inability to succumb to death is just as tragic. We are not meant to live forever, we are meant to live and then die at the right time. Yet, Death can never seem to get that right, can he? Arthur had died to young, I cannot die at all, and all that’s left was the tragedy of it.  
I shake myself as I step outside, washing my bowl and spoon in water from the well. There’s no point dwelling on things, especially on Death. Many men would kill to be immortal, I suppose I should be grateful for the gift. Though, if it is a gift, why does it feel so much like a burden?  
The sun had risen higher in the sky now, and I must hurry if I am to return to my youthful self and escape the village unnoticed. Many things have changed, perhaps, but the intolerance for magic has not.  
…  
Domremy, France  
May, 1428  
The dawn stretched out her hand over the small, sleepy village before me, her rays gently touching the very tips of the rooftops and reflecting off the fresh, morning dew. I was tired, but grateful at the sight of civilization at last. I had been traveling for more than three days, my newfound youth invigorating me and encouraging me to keep walking, even through the night. I had rested only a few times, never feeling comfortable enough to stay anywhere too long. Or even to allow my mind to wander to places I did not want it to go, but would go anyways.  
The sight of this sleepy village, with its aroma of fresh baked bread as the baker had been long awake, and the sight of smoke rising from the small chimneys as the rest of them woke with the sky, made me feel as though I was already curled up in a warm bed, free from any troubles. Even the ones in my mind.  
However, even as my lids began to close and I swayed while standing, I knew this sleepy village could do nothing for me unless I could find a room and bed to stay in.  
I stumbled forward through the trees and onto a little dirt path that led me into the first houses of the village. I scanned the buildings, looking for a sign of an inn, but found the village to be made of mostly houses, with hardly any sign of a blacksmith, let alone an inn.  
I caught sight of someone stepping out of their home and stopping at a well just outside of it. I hurried over to them and gave them what I hoped was a warm and weary smile.  
“Hello,” I said, my magic translating my words so that it would sound like whatever language this man spoke, “Can you direct me to an inn?”  
“Inn?” he replied in French, giving me a rather scathing look, “There’s no inn here?”  
“Oh.” I said, feeling rather disappointed, “Well, is there any place I can rest? Perhaps get something to eat?”  
“There’s always the church.” He said, pointing to a steeple that was poking over the houses.  
I tried hard not to wrinkle my nose. The idea of stepping into a church, knowing how they felt about people like me seemed less appealing than another day of travel without sleep.  
“Thank you.” I said, trying hard not to show my disappointment, “Would it be alright if I refilled here?” I gestured to my canteen.  
“Have at it.” The man shrugged with an almost sneer like expression, lugging his bucket of water back towards his house.  
I grabbed a lone bucket that was resting beside the well, set down my pack, and hooked it onto the pulley, slowly lowering it down until I heard a soft splash. As I was pulling it back up, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle and my stomach lurch, the overwhelming presence of powerful magic washing over me like a rush of water. I spun around, expecting to have to search for the source, when I caught sight of a young girl, walking towards the well. There was no doubt in my mind that she was the source of the magic, her very presence very nearly overpowering me.  
“Hello.” She said brightly as I had to clutch the side of the well to keep from falling over, my vision swimming. What was happening?  
“Hello.” I said, trying to sound just as bright, my vision returning back to normal as the magic faded or I grew more accustomed to it. I wasn’t entirely sure which.  
I looked over at her and studied her curiously as she replaced my bucket with hers and passed it to me. She was young, very young, not even twenty years of age yet, and had dark black hair, cropped short like a pageboy. She had olive skin, with tinges of red on her cheeks and arms, marks from her hard work in the sun, and her eyes were a deep brown that reminded me of the earth after a rainstorm. She was short, very short, coming only to my shoulder at most, but she was also strong, the kind of strong from which she could only have gotten from hard labor.  
“Not from around here, are you?” she asked, looking into the well as she released the bucket, watched it fall quickly, and then land with a loud splash.  
“No, definitely not.” I said, trying not to laugh at the irony of it all.  
“No offense,” she said, her brown eyes sparkling playfully, “But you look awful.”  
Ah. The blunt truth of the young.  
“I’m sure you would too if you’d been traveling for a few days.” I shot back, though gave her a small grin.  
“I suppose.” She said, grabbing her bucket, “And what is an Englishman doing in France?”  
“How did you know I was English?” I asked, a bit taken aback.  
“You may speak fluent French, but you hold yourself like an Englishman.” She teased.  
Truthfully, I wasn’t quite sure what she meant. All I know is that the smirk on her face told me that she knew something that I knew not, perhaps what an Englishmen held himself like. Although, I suppose I wasn’t really English. After all, I was around before England was.  
“Are you visiting someone?” she said suddenly, looking at me with curiosity.  
“No. I’m just a traveler. I’m looking for a new place to live.” I said truthfully.  
“Tired of England, then?” she joked once more, “I would be if I were you.”  
“I’ve actually lived in France for many years.” I laughed, “Although, I suppose not long enough to wipe the English out of me.”  
“You can take the boy out of England, but not England out of the boy.” She replied.  
I couldn’t help grinning at her sharpness. Her words were clever and quick, but there was no malice behind them. With a pang, I thought of Gwaine.  
“Do you have a place to stay?” she said, hooking the bucket’s handle over her shoulder.  
“No, actually. I’ve just been informed that there’s no inn.” I said rather sheepishly.  
“You can stay with us, if you like, my family and I live just down the road.” She gestured with her head, “We have plenty of room.”  
“You’d let an Englishman stay with you?” I asked in surprise.  
“I don’t hate Englishmen, it’s their politics I dislike.” She said with a grin, “Unless you don’t want to stay with a French family? Though you don’t have many other options around here.”  
“I’d be delighted.” I said, picking up my pack and following after her as she headed down the lane, “Though you don’t find it strange to invite someone into your home without even asking his name?”  
“God said to help one another, He didn’t say anything about asking for names first.” She joked.  
Though I laughed with her, I couldn’t help but cringe at her words. Would she still invite me in her home if she knew I had magic? Although, she had magic herself. Did she know? And had she somehow reconciled this magic with her religion?  
“Perhaps it’s just a custom of the English, then, to know someone’s name before inviting them into our homes.” I replied.  
She rolled her eyes, “What’s your name, then?”  
“Merlin.” I said, unable to think of anything quicker.  
“Merlin? Like the magician from the Arthur stories?” she asked with a raised brow.  
My heart clenched at his name. That’s all he was to anyone anymore. A story.  
“Yes, exactly.” I said, trying to sound amused.  
“You Englishmen are so strange,” She said, rolling her eyes, “having such an obsession with a false king.”  
I pretended to laugh. If only she knew that there had been nothing false about Arthur and his court, only the stories they told, “Well now you know my name, after inviting me into your home, mind you, but what’s yours?”  
She flashed me another grin, her brown eyes warm, “They call me Joan. Joan d’Arc.”


End file.
